Points in Our Lives

It started again with a wedding. Not ours, god no— we were much too young, although we wished the best for our friend Cristie settling down at 24. No, we were both guests, sitting at different tables, the sounds of chatter and cheer drowning out any potential awkward silences.

…

I didn’t think she would ever want to talk to me again. I watched her from across the cafeteria. I was sitting with my friends; we were probably insulting each other as teenagers often do. She sat with Christie, quietly reading and hardly touching her food.

“At least she’s eating now,” I thought, a wave of guilt spilling through my chest. I still worried about her— not that it would absolve me. I looked on as she stood from her seat.

…

“I wanted to start by repeating what I said last night,” her speech began. She looked over to the groom with caring eyes. “If you hurt Christie in any way, I will rain fire upon you.”

I chuckled to myself. She hadn’t changed— not really, anyways.

…

“I don’t think people can change,” she said. We were sitting in my car, overlooking a hiking trail littered with fairy houses and decorations. An hour before, we had shared our first kiss in 6 years.

“People change all the time, don’t they?” I asked. “Do you think you haven’t changed?”

“I think, at their core, people are rigid. They can present outwardly in different ways, say different things, but their values? Their beliefs? I’m not so sure,” she said.

“I guess I can see that, but I don’t think it’s accurate. I think people’s cores, their personality, is malleable, and shaped by life’s experiences— it changes slowly, but it does change.”

…

I was walking down an alleyway with Christie as we headed to our next lecture. The midwestern air was biting and aggressive, leaving our skin red under bundled coats and scarves.

“You’re so mean to me,” she laughed.

“You just make it too easy. It’s not my fault it’s fun to bully you,” I said.

“Did I tell you I met someone?” she asks.

“No, you didn’t! Who is it?” I ask in return.

“He’s a grad student, we met in the choir. We’d been talking for a few weeks and then I asked him out,” she said.

“And he said yes? What’s wrong with him?” I ask mockingly.

She jokingly pouts as we continue our stroll, the conversation slipping away with the wind.

“Are you doing okay?” She asks, after a moment.

“Not really. But I’ll be fine,” I said.

“She’s worried about you. I think she feels guilty,” she said.

My eye twitched closed and my arm pulled into my body, like it had just touched a hot mental stove. My hand balled into a fist, fingernails burrowing into my palm inside my pocket. Tears gathered in my eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” She asked.

“Yeah,” I lied. “The wind just stings.”

…

I laid on the floor, starfished, my phone on my chest. I couldn’t breathe, the air too thin to sustain me. I was gasping, my nose blocked, choking on the mucus as it dripped down the back of my throat— it was my first ever panic attack. I was convinced I was going to die, and for the first time in a while, I was afraid to.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice grainy and compressed over the phone. I couldn’t respond.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll go,” she said. A pain like a sharp venom coarsed through my blood, throwing my body upwards into a seated position.

“No, no, no, no, no, please don’t go,” I said. “It’s okay, it’s okay, everything is going to be okay…”

She had told me I was the only reason she was still alive. The only reason she had to get up every morning. But I couldn’t handle that pressure. She placed her life in my hands, while my own was slipping through my fingers.

…

“I’m doing much better now,” she said. I smiled at the cell phone placed on my desk, just happy to hear her voice. “I’ve been in therapy for pretty much the past 6 years, and I can handle myself pretty well. If we do this, you wouldn’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m not worried,” I said. “I know you’re strong.”

…

The light of each slide flickered against my face as I scrolled through the powerpoint she had sent me. “I wanted you to know, in case you change your mind about me,” her email said. I sat there in the dark at my dining room table, notebooks scattered around my laptop, screaming from its tired fans. I clicked on the next slide.

“I have diagnosed OCD,” it read. “And I’ve dealt with anxiety/depression and eating disorders, but I can't get those diagnosed because my parents don't believe it's an issue.”

…

My heart didn’t sink. It didn’t jump. It fell out of my chest and tumbled onto the floor as I saw her name on my ringing phone. I was terrified, my arm contorting and my vision blurring as my eye squeezed shut. I wanted to run, to scream, to tell her off, to ignore it— 6 years of aggression and fear barreling towards the tip of my tongue as I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” she asked. Her voice was soft. Warm. As comforting as I remembered. And in an instant, the stress fell away from my body as I picked my heart up off the floor and fixed it back in my chest.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“Yeah, it is. I hope you’re doing well,” she said.

“I’m doing my best. How about you?” I asked.

“I’m fine, just very busy,” she said. “Listen, I just wanted to call since we’re probably going to see each other at Cristie’s wedding, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I just wanted to apologize for the way I ended things. I know I hurt you, and it wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said, smiling. “Sure, it hurt, but it was necessary. We were in a tough place, and we admittedly had some codependent behaviors that probably weren’t helping. But I’m doing much better now, and it sounds like you are too. You have nothing to apologize for.”

…

It was just like the last time. I was starfished, hyperventilating, feeling like I was going to die. Like the world was crumbling around me as I lay on this last floating island of rubble miles above the endless void.

“Please don’t do this,” I sniveled. “We can make it work, we can visit, we can—”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t. The long distance is too hard. I feel so isolated, and I need someone who can be here with me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I couldn’t make things work, I’m sorry I couldn’t…”

“It’s not your fault, she said. “It has nothing to do with you, you’re a wonderful person, and I’ll always love you.”

The screen went black as silence swelled around me. The last of my island eroded until I was falling in the dark.

…

Petals fell from the blooming cherry trees, collecting like snow on the ground. It was uncomfortably hot, even in the shade, but the air between us was cold. I stared down at my feet, shuffling the petals through the dirt, too afraid to look her in the eye.

“I just can't do it anymore,” I said. “You need to talk to a professional, and I feel like as long as we’re together, you’ll be too reliant on me.”

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “I never meant to push you away.”

“I know. And I don't blame you. But I can barely handle my own problems. I can't be responsible for both of us if I can't be responsible for myself. And I'm terrified of hurting you, of you needing me and I'm not there because I'm too scared to respond,” I said.

We sat there for a long time, her hands in mine, my tears tickling the back of my palm as they dropped from my reddened cheeks. And then I left. I stood up from the bench and walked inside. And I kept walking, in circles through the hallways, no destination in mind but too afraid to stop and accept what I had done.

“Hey, do you know what happened?” Christie asked me, stopping me in my tracks. “She’s crying.”

“I know,” I said, pushing past her.

…

“I wish I got to see more of you at the after party,” I said.

“Yeah, I couldn't stay late unfortunately,” she said. “And I'm sorry for avoiding you during the reception.”

“It's okay, we were kinda avoiding each other,” I chuckled. “I would love to catch up properly though, maybe go out for coffee if you're free—”

“Actually, I need a favor from you,” she interrupted. “I'm sorry if this hurts to hear, but I've had feelings for you for the past 6 years. I don't think I ever got over you after we broke up. And it's been eating away at me. I need you to tell me that you hate me, that you never want to talk to me again, so I can just move on.”

I paused. Really, honestly paused and thought through what she had asked me.

“No,” I replied. “I can't do that. Because I don't feel that way. I don't hate you, and actually I do want to talk to you, even if it's just as friends, I want to have you in my life again. I miss you.”

…

It was such a brief moment. A simple wave and a quick “hello!” from her as we passed in the hallway. But the years of context, of aching, of her hating me, of me loving her, she shouldn't have ever wanted to talk to me again. And yet, she did. And I had hope. That maybe, maybe I could salvage this.

…

I sat alone in the library, pretending to study— or maybe I was earnestly trying, but the outcome was the same. I couldn't focus. My hands wandered across the desk until they found fresh paper, cutting a long strip, and folding it into a paper star.

They were something she made regularly. She said she made them every time something bad happened, or every time she needed to cheer herself up. And supposedly, the story behind them says that once you fold 10,000 stars, you get a wish. I wasn't nearly that patient.

I left the last crease unfolded, a small tag hanging from the star with a scribbled “open me” in blue pen. Inside, “I still love you.”

I dropped it near her feet as I passed her table exiting the library. And with all my might, I wished she would find it.

…

“I'm not sure this is working out,” she said. “I'm just not in a great place for a relationship. I have too many other things going on, and I can feel myself backsliding into old habits of thinking. It isn't healthy for me.”

I listened in from the other side of the phone. It wasn't like the last times. It was… peaceful. And I was proud of her vulnerability, her bravery, her putting her own needs first.

“I understand,” I said. “Friends?”

“Friends,” she replied.

…

After the wedding I drove to the after party, a karaoke club where music slid out the door and into the street. Christie and her husband were singing with their choir friends. I wasn't much for singing, instead choosing to nurse my drink as I watched the chaos unfold.

I saw her there of course, but still didn't know what to say. Instead, it was her that waved me over to join in for a song.

“I don't know the words,” I said. “I'm gonna mess it up.”

“That's okay,” she said. “Just join me.”